I didn’t know what I was thinking.  I’ve stopped thinking and only live now from moment to moment, from this moment to the next one, pulled through them one after the next by the invisible hand.  I pull off way down Melrose around a non-descript old Hollywood building and squeeze the bike between two bumpers at the curb. With my helmet off I can hear the faint sound of music. On Melrose there’s a doorman that shues me in.


There’re polaroids taped up all over the walls. It’s a one-act play about Edie Sedgwick and Andy Warhol and the Factory, but the show was over, and Twiggy and Basquiat were floating through the crowd with the sound of Blanco Niño, who agreed to place after the show. Hard to say no. Feer beer; beautiful women; red lighting. The boys are flexing out a few of the new tracks from the forth-coming album they’ve been working on. They’ve really got something that sounds so haunting here, what with the dead celebrities walking around, the wigs, the acting, the outfits; and an acid surf punk rock-and-roll. I may be stoned, but that doesn’t diminish the fact that their performance is entirely seductive. They’re really digging the knife into these songs. They’re zoned and mellow though. They’re hungry for this one.